


Go to Sleep

by The_Hobbit_Ninja



Series: As I Imagine Them [1]
Category: Hannibal Lecter (Hopkins Movies)
Genre: Anthony Hopkins movies, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, how I imagine them, sort of romantic but not really, the books and movies made it weird so this is my take
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 03:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30116460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Hobbit_Ninja/pseuds/The_Hobbit_Ninja
Summary: Hannibal mends Clarice’s bullet wound, except in a somewhat sweet way (as I imagine it) rather than a somewhat creepy way (as in the movie).
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Clarice Starling
Series: As I Imagine Them [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2216193
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	Go to Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series of short scenes of Hannibal and Clarice as I imagine their relationship.

The pain in her shoulder was making her vision blurry. Black spots danced around the corners of her eyes, and the stabbing ache made her desperately wish for renewed unconsciousness. Instinct made her press her fingers into the wound, desperate for the pressure to alleviate the pain. The relief she craved eluded her; instead she felt a rough pattern stitched into her skin. Something was making her brain feel fuzzy...she hazily remembered her emergency first aid training “apply pressure to the wound until the bleeding slows.” That was what they told her. She didn’t feel any blood, but in her disoriented state all she could think about was putting pressure on the place that hurt so bad she thought it must be on fire.

Clarice dug her fingers into the place, grinding her teeth to keep from crying out in pain. Her fingers began to pick at the stitches without her conscious mind telling them to. She knew that pulling out fresh stitches is just about the worst possible course of action, but she couldn't stop herself. Her vision had completely blacked out; all she could feel was thread buried in her skin. The stitches itched and burned and stung and she clawed at them with animal determination. The inflamed skin started to tear away with the thread, and she cried out in pain, a harsh, involuntary sound. 

It was then that she felt a cool hand cover hers, and firmly, gently, pull her clawing fingers away from the wound. The burning in her shoulder refused to let up, and she strained against whatever or whoever was holding her. 

She sighed with relief as something cold and damp was lightly pressed to her injury. She vaguely identified it as a terry cloth material. She relaxed into the sensation, allowing herself to go limp, the exhaustion of pain setting in. She didn’t want to open her eyes. The light stung, and the darkness was comforting. 

She felt the surface she was lying on--a mattress, she realized vaguely--sink slightly beneath an added weight. She felt her body lifted and cradled against someone. Her brain was slow, lethargic, cloudy...she had a hazy idea that this could be caused by a large dose of morphine. She wondered why someone was holding her; she had the feeling that she shouldn’t like it, but she didn’t want them--whoever they were--to let her go. She let her head fall against his chest as unconsciousness tugged at the corners of her mind. She was slightly aware of cool fingers running softly through her hair, sliding the tie out and gently combing through it. The scent of rosemary faintly registered, combining with softly spoken words she wasn’t present enough to interpret. She sighed, resigned to the artificial sleep that was pulling her into its depths. As her conscious faded away, she felt a hand cup the side of her face, running a thumb lightly over her cheek. She was acutely aware of the points of contact as the fingers trailed over her face, softly caressing her skin. Her cheeks were hot and flushed with the fever of infection, and the cool, dry fingers on her face were deliciously relieving. She barely caught the last four words. 

“Go to sleep, Clarice.”

She did.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop me a comment if you please, kind reader! If you liked this work, go check out the other work(s) in this series!  
> Have a cracker day, darling:)


End file.
